


Regrettably Condemned

by Violent_Winds_and_Waiting_Rooms



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, But only if you squint, Drama, M/M, Mild Language, Minor Character Death, Murder, Mycroft IS the British Government, mystrade
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-14
Updated: 2015-02-14
Packaged: 2018-03-12 21:00:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 983
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3355106
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Violent_Winds_and_Waiting_Rooms/pseuds/Violent_Winds_and_Waiting_Rooms
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An unfortunate necessity creates a rift... but with the possibility of healing.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Regrettably Condemned

Detective Inspector Lestrade arrives home seven hours later than intended.  Someone murdered a CEO of a Fortune 500 company, but none of the facts were adding up.  Despite being in a wholly public place, there was no footage of the murder.  No weapon was found, although the killer had clearly put a sharp object through the victim’s jugular.  There were no witnesses, no obvious motives or suspects, and absolutely no forensic evidence of importance.

“Do you think this was a professional hit?” Donovan whispered to him.

“We’ll find out,” Greg responded confidently.

By the time he left for home he wasn’t so sure, especially when Sherlock texted him, _“Not interested.”_

Greg fiddles with his keys and opens the door to his quiet, empty flat.  Outside a snowstorm is brewing.  The flat is dark, and cool from the draft.  Greg brushes snowflakes off his face and hangs up his coat.  Something is setting off his senses, though he can’t put his finger on what.  He reaches down to rest his dominant hand on his gun.

“Who’s there?” he calls out.  “Show yourself!”

A floorboard creaks.  “Detective Inspector,” a voice calmly whispers.  “I encourage you to unhand your weapon.”

The authority in the voice supersedes his own.  Lestrade flicks on the light switch to see Mycroft Holmes.  “Is breaking in to my home really necessary?” he asks in annoyance.  One Holmes brother is bad enough.

“Should I have waited outside?” Mycroft questions in return.  The wind violently rattles the shutters as if to emphasize his point.  Even the damn wind obeys Mycroft Holmes.

“Forgive me if I don’t offer you tea,” Lestrade says bitingly.  He had hoped to have a shower, a shot of Jack Daniels, and a long nap.  Entertaining uninvited guests was not on his agenda.

“This is official business.  Should only take a moment.”

“You have one moment exactly, then you remove yourself from my home.”

“Understood,” Mycroft responds defensively.  “Today your team was working on a murder-“

“I’m well aware.”

“-and you need to stop digging.”

“Just wait a second.  Digging is my job!  We can’t ignore murders, especially ones this publicized.”

“You have to.  I trust your skills at relating to the public will come in handy-“

“No.”

Mycroft Holmes’ face changes in the blink of an eye.  The politeness is gone, leaving only calculated dominance.  “You _will_ stop digging.”

“Give me a reason,” Greg says, but the fight has left his body.

“I organized the hit as a matter of national security.  Any other details are above your clearance level and right to know.”

Greg’s blood runs cold.  He shivers and steps back a pace, as if to subconsciously distance himself from the man in front of him.  “He had a wife.”

“And a mistress,” Mycroft states, rolling his eyes.

“And three sons and a daughter.”

Mycroft frowns.  “He was committing treason.  I assure you, his family is safer with him gone.”

“Why not tell them that to their faces?” Lestrade counters, sickened.

“Trust me- I don’t take such decisions lightly.”

“So this is a routine thing for you?”

“Gregory Lestrade, you know little of what you speak of.”

Greg can’t stand being inside hearing justification for murder.  He pivots and goes back outside, foregoing the time it would take to put his coat back on.  “I need a cigarette,” he mumbles.  He fiddles with opening a new package.  He normally doesn’t smoke this many in one day.  Mycroft follows Greg, but stands in the doorway.  His eyes scan their surroundings, calculating.

 

D.I. Lestrade has seen the aftermath of many murders.  One time a young widow gripped him by the lapels and screamed at him.  _“I was so stupid to have trusted the authorities! I don’t want your apologies, you poor excuse for a man!  If you had done your jobs, my Henry wouldn’t be dead!”_ Greg let her shake him until she wore out and fell on her knees in grief.  The woman was incapable of being consoled.  A year later Greg received word that her body was found in the Thames, an apparent suicide.

Greg’s hands and face already start to go numb.  His eyes squint from the wind.

“Gregory…” Mycroft says cautiously, “Do you think that there’s forgiveness for people like me?” A crack of pain cuts through his voice.

Greg isn’t sure how to answer the unexpected question.  He pulls out a lighter and tries to burn the end of his cigarette to buy time.  It is a slow light- the wind is fighting his attempts.  It’s as if his ex-wife is asking if her bum looks big.  There are certain questions that are impossible to answer honestly without damning yourself.

“Are you getting religious on me, Mycroft?”

Mycroft sighs wearily.  “Perhaps.”  He winces and glances down at his umbrella.  Walking forward, he opens the umbrella and uses it to shield Lestrade.  The cigarette finally lights.  “You are upset.  It’s a natural reaction.  I’m not a sociopath, Gregory, but I don’t have the option of being shaken.  I have to protect the public.”

Greg takes several deep puffs while the words sink in.  “I won’t investigate what you tell me not to investigate.  We do need to look into most of the leads, though, to keep up appearances.”

“Thank you.”

“Don’t think for one moment that you don’t owe me and my men.  I’m wasting resources sending them on wild goose chases.  That isn’t what they signed up for.”

“An unfortunate necessity.”

“You owe us,” Greg emphasizes.

“Yes,” Mycroft relents.  “I owe you.”  Greg offers Mycroft a cigarette.  No doubt Greg wasn’t the only person who worked a long and emotionally exhausting day.  Mycroft takes the peace offering and deflates.  He never hopes for forgiveness.  This small mercy is more than he could expect, given the circumstances.

The two men stand out in the cold, shielded by the umbrella, until both flames go out.

**Author's Note:**

> I meant to write something fluffy for Valentine's Day. How did this happen? o_o


End file.
